


Ambition

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Series: How Have the Mighty Fallen [2]
Category: Christian Bible (Old Testament), תנ"ך | Tanakh
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2370317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place immediately after David kills Goliath. He’s 17, has been in Saul’s service as court musician for two years, then was sent off for two years back to shepherding when Saul decided his bipolar treatments were sooo last year. David returns to court via the duel with Goliath. Jonathan is ~25 at this time. I really do like David’s character, faults and all, and have always wanted to write this scenario in David’s POV.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ambition

**Author's Note:**

> Written in 2007, reposted from LJ, AFF.net etc  
> Blanket disclaimer on all my biblefic: this is fiction inspired by stories and characters in the Old Testament, not any sort of exegesis or legitimate interpretation.

I lie here in the Prince’s bed, the Prince’s heavy arm draped over my body, the Prince’s soft breaths teasing the skin over my spine. Is this not what I have desired ever since arriving at the palace? Did my body not respond even as I first beheld Saul’s firstborn, and am I not closer than ever to the throne of Judea, lying here in the arms of the heir apparent?

I had been anticipating this moment for a long time. Perhaps it was the desire for this moment to arrive faster than God’s sluggish plan would ordain that made me throw my life on the line in front of Goliath yesterday morning. For what are years to God, who sees everything at once, while I, poor mortal, suffer those same years under the weight of a prophecy that I feel responsible for carrying out? I risked my life and gained the admiration of the entire army as well as this particular soldier with whom I lie intertwined.

Many believe that the truly pious put their trust in the Lord and make no further effort—that the effort is proof of a lack of belief, in fact—but this outlook surprises me. It is hardly recorded so in the Book. So many miracles, so many positive forces exerted by God were exerted through the mundane clay body of a man. So shall I sit on my hands and wait for kingship to fall into my lap once Samuel has assured me I was God’s chosen? Especially when Saul had me extirpated from court just as I turned fifteen, as if sensing an oncoming threat?

I had expected Jonathan to be a stern, imposing opponent to be dealt with. Then I saw his beauty, his strange Egyptian habits of shaving and taking exercise in the morning, and I heard the rumors about his strange inclinations. I had never thought about bedding down with a man, but court life was full of such new surprises. My heart raced not with envy or resentment but surprising desire. Jonathan was a stepping stone to gain kingship rather than a barrier, I decided, and studied him intensively from afar. I thought to own him, to make him mine and thus gain the throne and gain him as a companion and a body to make love to. He hardly paid attention to the skinny boy employed to entertain his father; I, on the other hand, vividly recall each instance he graced me with a word. He really saw me for the first time only yesterday, when it was not a lyre but a giant’s severed head in my hands, when I was not a domestic servant but a soldier.

I carried the head of Goliath of Gath by its coarse mane of dark hair—so large that its beard trailed in the dust when my arm tired of raising the trophy to the admiration of the crowd around me. I approached Saul without summon—perhaps too boldly for a youth who had been little more than a shepherd earlier that morning.

The King greeted me with an embrace and lifted my unoccupied arm up in triumphant gesture.

“Hear O Israel, this youth has granted us victory, through the infinite grace of God,” Saul’s powerful voice projected across the field of soldiers.

The Judeans screamed triumph; the severed head swayed lightly, still dripping dark congealed clots. I began to search eagerly for the man I wished to witness this brief moment of glory most of all. There he was, to the left, among the rabble of troops. How many years had I felt a deep, hot longing to smother this man in my arms, but for one night press up against the body that housed this noble soul and wrestle kingship away? And now I was finally the center of his attention.

Saul’s heavy, ringed hand tousled my hair, as if to underscore my young age. “Who would guess this young rascal to have such military prowess?” he said quietly, mostly to me. Jonathan had been out of earshot, and for that I was thankful. Saul’s hands on me brought back memories I had locked away.

I was fifteen, two years in his services, and he had been growing more and more forward with me. ‘Sit on my lap as you play,’ he instructed me one day. The next day I felt his hand creep up and rub my back. Even the kisses I withstood, my desire to remain in court and in good standing outweighing my aversion. Until one evening when he pulled me into bed, and I had to tear myself away from his grasp. He laughed but he was angry. I was dismissed back to my father’s sorry little village within a few days.

I tried to stand as tall as possible and raised a cheer from the assembled by lifting up the war prize again.

My victory and the Philistine retreat afforded Judea additional land, and for the first time the Israelites descended to the shores of the Great Sea. Jonathan invited me to join him and some fellow soldiers for a dip, but I was ashamed—I was not adept at swimming, nor did I know how to undress in front of one I wanted to bed. I watched him a while, laughing as waves crashed against his body.

The heat was oppressive at that time of day, and I realized that I should wash myself of battlefield dust if I was earnest in my plans to sleep in Jonathan's bed that night. I waded in, but found the waters rough, and soon enough I felt the salt scorch each and every small scrape I had acquired in the short fight.

“I cannot bear the sting of the waters, Your Highness!” I shouted across the din of the waves when Jonathan questioned why I was leaving.

“Thoughtless of me!” He followed after me out of the water. “You spared us from fighting and now we laugh at your injuries…”

“Better they provoke mirth than sympathy from Your Highness—for they are more like blisters from ill-fitting sandals than battle scars.”

“Call me by name,” he insisted, smiling, his voice growing quiet as he caught up to me on the beach. I could feel him gaze me over, but pretended to pay no heed. “Will I have a war hero pay me absurd respects when even the squires call me Jonathan? You are the bravest soldier I have the pleasure of knowing…”

“God guided my hand. I was but God’s instrument at that moment,” I said, hurrying to put my clothes on again, but Jonathan stayed my hand, walked over to the rocks where he had doffed off his royal garb and put it on my naked body, calling out to the other men to listen.

“This youth amazed me earlier with his bravery and ingenuity, but now I am thoroughly smitten. He emanates the light of God and speaks more wisely than anyone I know. Let me here declare allegiance with this young prodigy for all time—for he shall grow to be a great man, and it will be a pleasure to be his friend.”

This was sudden and I was caught off guard—not knowing what to say or do and feeling my cheeks crimson. There were but ten or so witnesses to this bold declaration, and some were inattentive, splashing about in the waters, but I required no onlookers to feel discomfited. I was uneasy to be clad in Jonathan’s tunic, even the royal girdle, his bronze sword feeling heavy in a hand accustomed to the sling or a copper dagger at best.

“All hail Prince David!” One of the spectators shouted, laughing. My heart thumped in my throat. I was only glad Saul was not present to see this display, however frivolous it might be in these men’s minds.

Yet Jonathan’s smile held no derision—he was blessed with pristine emotions, I had noticed earlier. He was happy for me, without the tinge of jealousy or uneasiness I would have expected from a prince briefly upstaged by a lowly young commoner. I, on the other hand, was roiling with happiness, pride, and apprehension all at once, and stood petrified as Jonathan embraced me. The body I knew so well with my eyes somehow bewildered me when I first touched it.

Later that day, we made a return to the camp. Strangers screamed my name, tousled my hair, punched my shoulders lightly, and invited me to drink toasts with them. The girls following the army to cook and take care of the soldiers were unusually flirty, but I was not about to take advantage when I was so close to securing my place with Jonathan. He was not insistent, not even overt, and no one around us would have noticed, but I could glimpse interest in his eyes, and the furtive nature of this interest made me all the more impatient for night to arrive.

The army sacrificed several large oxen and prayed at dusk. Someone shouted that I should lead prayers, the news that Goliath’s slayer had also been Saul’s musician traveling quickly. I demurred twice, then complied upon the third insistence. It was the first time I would perform for such a great gathering, but my voice was not untrained to carry—though it had only been straying sheep that had heard it as loud as I sang that evening.

I chanted, the army would respond, and for a moment I forgot I was but an intermediary to Heaven. For a moment, I was drunk with the illusion that I commanded the army, my voice’s power swelling in accordance.

“Invent us a song!” someone shouted from the crowd when prayers were finished.

“Aleph!” another shouted a letter. My heart pounded. Even a skilled lyricist cannot always think on the spot, but I was drunk on exhilaration and immediately began a verse with the letter. The crowd continued yelling out random letters, and I improvised, the lines of the acrostic pouring out of me with perfect rhythm, seemingly before I could formulate them in my head. How could I ever doubt God’s existence, when he spoke through me thus?

Even in my frenzy, I was well aware of Jonathan standing beside me, his admiration playing like sunrays on my skin. I knew he was in awe of my skill, I knew I was securing my place in his affections, and I knew that I wanted to make love to him with a desperation that grew with the mounting thrill of public performance.

Finally, I ended the song—successfully, without the lousy trailing off that usually occurred when I was composing in solitude, under no pressure of thousands of ears. I was growing impatient, and Jonathan looked happy to oblige, but it was not to be. Saul had suddenly appeared, squeezing me to him as if I were a child, full of condescension, even as the cheers of the crowd still rang strong.

“My little lyre-player excelled himself today. Will he join me at the table tonight?”

Could I refuse? Though never invited to seat myself among them before, I knew Saul’s table well from the years when I sat in the corner, ready to play if called upon. The king’s four sons were seated to the King’s left, I on his right, as guest of honor. Avner, Saul’s uncle and a top commander, sat beside me—an imposing man of great military achievement, but he liked me and told off-color jokes the entire meal. Saul’s second son Malkishua was saturnine as usual. Was he sullen because he was a royal prince without hope for the throne? He glared at me. An ambitious soul recognizes a fellow one. I did not glare back only because my accomplishments that day glared for me. Abinadab and Ishbosheth were near my age and had been friendly to me before I was dismissed from court, but now neither dared look me in the eyes. Though not all thirty men gathered there were direct relatives of Saul, I quickly realized I was the only non-Benjamite present. Gone was my uncontrolled ardor from before—I knew when to lie low in the presence of the King. Jonathan, in turn, knew when to avoid arousing suspicion and hardly looked at me throughout the meal though I was seated across from him.

“I thought to dismiss him, but he returns like the carrier pigeon!” Saul exclaimed about me at one point during the dinner.

“He returns a fiercer breed of pigeon, seems to me. More like a sweet-voiced canary turned hawk.” Avner laughed. “He reminds me of Jonathan in his first few campaigns. Magnificently reckless.”

“Unlike my son, the son of Jesse did ask my leave to entrust life and limb to God.”

“Would you have let me go, Father, had I asked?” Jonathan said, smiling.

“No, perhaps not. But you must not chastise me for it. Not only are you my firstborn, but the future of all Judea.” Saul emphasized the last phrase and I noticed Jonathan’s eyes dart away from Saul’s face as they always did when the subject was broached. “And though this worthy sapling of a boy faced a great warrior, you went headlong into a throng of them, I might remind you.”

“To the House of Saul, the bravest and mightiest,” agreed Malkishua, encouraging a toast.

“Shall we toast deeds of years ago, when our guest of honor excelled himself only this morn? Drink to David Son of Jesse, I say,” Jonathan suddenly interjected.

“Try looking for a worthier ally than Jonathan and you will grow old before you succeed,” Avner whispered into my ear, then took up the toast, heavy arm slapping my shoulder.

Had I been among my peers, I would have bombarded them with jokes. Here, I felt as a man in a den of beasts. “I thank everyone assembled and I hope to continue in the service of the royal family as long as God would allow me.”

Saul sipped from his cup, watching me with eyes too inquiring to feel comfortable.

The girl serving wine smiled so amiably at me that I drank more than I wanted, and I soon felt its effects, my movements less graceful and balanced than usual. My faculties of speech and judgment I clung onto more desperately than anything else in the company of these men. Old Avner was drunk, wheezing out long hoarse guffaws at every comment, whether it was in jest or earnest. He leaned on me, alcohol on his breath, poking at me if I failed to answer his questions promptly. Malkishua’s tongue had also loosened, though he was in no better mood, and only vitriol slipped out. I was relieved to look across and see Jonathan alert as ever, desire glowing soft like embers in his eyes. I have never seen him drunk and that distinguishes him from the rest of his house—all prone to fits and tantrums whether from wine or inner demons.

Saul granted us all permission to retire for the night, and I extricated myself out of Avner’s pawing hands, every fiber of my body aching to finally make love to the man separated from me by three cubits of wooden table for so long. I followed Jonathan into his tent slowly, as if it were not my burning will to do so, still playacting demure resignation. I wondered if he would grab my body as soon as we were alone, but he lit the wick in a small dish of oil and poured dilute wine for both of us.

“I remember you left a boy. I was sorry to see you leave so abruptly, without having had a proper conversation…”

“A prince is not expected to talk to every servant in the King’s house. You had been on campaign when I was told to pack my things.”

“Father has been worse without your music.”

Jonathan smiled wistfully, running a fingertip around the rim of the goblet he was holding instead of drinking from it. Was he uncertain that I was as eager as he was to make love? His hesitation emboldened me to the very verge of insolence and I broke the awkward pause.

“Are the rumors true? About you kissing your armor-bearer?”

Jonathan looked at me without answering. “Yes,” he finally said, less an answer than a cagey question of his own posed to me, gaze sharp and challenging even in the dim light of one candle.

I had no response, but lowered my eyes.

“It was years ago,” he added. “He accompanied me on that famous desperate mission, up the cliffs, when no one else would have followed.”

“Ah.” I moved my lashes shyly, seductively. “I would have followed had I been of age and not holed up herding my father’s sheep.”

It was enough. His lips were soon on mine, his arms supported me as we descended onto his bed—narrow and sparse in furnishings. Jonathan does not live in luxury even at court, and his military bed is no different than any other common soldier’s.

“How long have you been a man?” he asked, proceeding to intimacy quickly once I lay beneath him, throwing off his clothing to the floor.

“Four—” My vocal cords were stiff from the evening’s earlier abuse during communal prayer, but they locked up entirely when his hands reached under my tunic, running up along my body. “Four years.”

“Are you frightened?”

“No.”

Jonathan slid the hem of my tunic up to my armpits. “Drunk, perhaps?”

“Not on wine.”

He laughed softly, touched my arms, stroked my legs, my chest, my hips, his tongue tracing the cords of my neck, the edges of my nipples. The night air tingled cold against the moist trails he left on my skin, but my body was heating up from within. I wanted to grab him, to know him, to open the Prince of Judea up as I did frequently in my dreams. I may be young, but I have bedded many girls—many older than I. I could not say, however, what Jonathan would think of that sort of audacity, so I slackened my body and let him govern our first encounter.

When I was stripped and held close, a sudden fright did come over me. Jonathan was still courteous, still highly recognizable in the way he interjected “May I?” before imposing anything, waiting for my nod to continue. And still I became frightened. Frightened that he would do to me what I so desperately longed to do to him. The feeling was by no means admirable, and I swallowed it down. He sensed my uneasiness and slowed his advances upon my body, but I could not play the wilting flower any longer. When his hand took my manhood, I reached over and took his—took it with the greed of taking hold of a scepter before mimicking his motions.

Jonathan looked surprised but pleased. No armor-bearer of his had ever attempted it, in all likelihood, but fortunately my drive for action was well-received. We continued this way, breaths growing shallow, and I thought we would finish together, yet suddenly he pushed me over onto my stomach on his bed, asking may he?, his desire scorching and insistent against my thigh. Of course I murmured acquiescence. Of course I did not voice my displeasure at having my excitement stifled into the coarse bedding, nor my displeasure at the sounds the oil made as he slipped in and out between my legs, directing me to clench my thighs together harder. I obeyed his words like a decree from Heaven, gritting my teeth, only thankful that he had no designs to penetrate. Such was the life of a prince’s beloved, I mused. My spirits fell. Jonathan seemed far older, far wiser, taller, and stronger than me, and I was inwardly frightened by the groans he issued forth several times as he made passionate love to my legs. It was different than with a woman, and why I was surprised at this I do not know.

The heat of his organ sliding close to mine, the way his warm breath poured onto my back at the end of each thrust all made me harden into the bed underneath me and strange thoughts accumulated amidst the trance of lust. I distinctly remember wishing that I was not only in bed, under Jonathan Prince of Judea, but also standing beside the scene as a spectator. I imagined how Jonathan must appear from the back when thrusting, and I had a burning desire to be two bodies—to make love and be made love to all at once, to concurrently engulf Jonathan from all sides and appreciate every aspect of his body. Strange thoughts, I realized, as I felt Jonathan tense above me, spill forth seed and settle his shuddering body on top of mine, a man’s weight bearing down on my body, a man’s flat chest pressing into my shoulder blades, a man’s sexual organs still heavy, hot, and intrusive between my slippery thighs.

I am brought back to the present when I feel arousal at the memory. Jonathan shifts and murmurs something in his sleep, eyelids trembling with vivid morning dreams, already in the antechamber to the waking state.

Am I angry? No, he was exceedingly considerate as soon as the urgency of release subsided, sloppy breathy kisses bestowed on my neck and shoulders even as he recovered his breath. He rolled over to his side, my body in tow, my back still pressed into his chest. One of his hands nursed my excitement back as if it were his own, as if we really were one body knit together—stroking me until I thrashed against him with ecstasy. As I lay fatigued in the aftermath of climax, he left the bed. The candle had burnt out before—I could no longer make out his form, and I felt a distinct sadness. Would he leave me here to recover in his tent while he rushed off to do something else? I had abandoned many young girls with even less ceremony after the act, but I wanted to be assured of the heat of his body before I succumbed to sleep.

He emerged back from the darkness swiftly, cleaning us both, running a moist rag over my soiled thighs with more tenderness than my mother ever showed me, bestowing kisses on those thighs once they were clean, all the while extolling my wonderful victory that morning, completely besotted with my rash arrogance in stepping out to duel the Philistine champion. Jonathan is the love of my life, I reflected, with a measure of awe. I knew that no woman could ever arouse this same mixture of passion and admiration in me.

Why, then, am I so uneasy to awaken in his arms this morning?

I am not dismayed at him, I realize, but at myself. I have insinuated myself into his affections for political gain, while he gives his love freely, with no advantage to him worth speaking of. He is a creature who is noble, handsome, and too accomplished to concern himself with petty matters like the throne. The throne. Who cares, in the end? I arrived at the palace four years ago, bearing Samuel’s secret anointment like a hidden badge, thinking to make a difference to the entire world, in God’s eyes, in everyone’s eyes, and yet here is a man who was beyond all this. A legitimate king is not jealous over his kingship. Was Samuel mad? Is God mistaken? How can I ever reach the same tier of men as Jonathan, let alone presume to displace him as rightful king?

He breathes in deeply and I sense he is about to open his eyes. I shift under his arm, turning to look at him, stroking his face. His dense lashes tremble and he blinks in the light. Seeing me, he gives me an affectionate squeeze, then immediately clears the corners of his eyes, fastidious as ever. I kiss him, but he is reluctant.

“My beard is unpleasant to rub against,” he apologizes, scrambling out from under the covers. He kneels over his shield to see his reflection, and applies a blade to his face, pouting his lips to stretch the skin of his cheek across his noble bones. His exposed naked body arouses me painfully, and I am ashamed. Only an inexperienced youngster would be so insatiable.

“Does it displease the King that you do this?” I ask, having longed to ask ever since I beheld him. His younger brother is already adorned with a full beard, yet he disobeys God so blatantly.

Jonathan turns from his task, smiling wistfully. “It was his favorite displeasure with me for many years. He has given up on it, shifting his scorn.”

“To what?”

“My unwillingness to provide an heir, as he sees it.”

“You do not like women?”

Jonathan puts the blade away, diving under the coverlet, finding the excitement I had attempted to conceal. “None as much as you.”

My breath hitches as he descends with his mouth upon my torso, circling my nipple with his tongue, then the other, his hand working my hardening desire. I climax quickly—embarrassed—when his tongue dips into my navel, strings of it let forth across his throat and collarbones. He laughs, settling back to clean himself off. Part of me wishes he would not always hurry to clear signs so quickly.

“Let me confide in you, lest you imagine me a thoughtless rogue.”

I smirk at his words, he smiles and continues, though there is a profound melancholy about him underneath that I have noted before. Perhaps this is his quiet form of tantrum from the House of Saul.

“It is less a disinterest in women than the premonition that I will die soon. Samuel has seen it as well, from God’s eyes. What will a child of mine do—left to the mercy of my brothers when Saul is dead? I have no desire for it, though perhaps I will have to. Respect thy father and thy mother is the worthiest commandment, and I do not wish to grieve him needlessly.”

I have known all about the prophecy before, but hearing these words of resignation from one so alive, so worthy of continuing to live on and on, makes me tremble inside. I embrace him without a word, feeling as if his body is already cold from such blasphemous indifference toward life, and that I could perhaps transfer my heat to him, my all-too-ardent will to live and succeed.

“Do not think such thoughts, Jonathan—it recalls the foul spirits of your father.”

“You cured him with your lyre. What would you cure me with?” He smiles, stroking my hair—none of the patronizing patting about it, only a lover’s long fingers combing through. The equivocal gibberish of prophecy governs our lives completely, I realize with a measure of horror. My prospects were vaulted up and Samuel’s words gave me the impetus to change life’s route from the shepherding hills. Yet what ruin similar words have wrought on Jonathan’s disposition!

Jonathan’s thoughts have run onwards. “Tell me, David, when God made you, did he endow you with one fault? Bravery, agility, cunning, beauty, voice, an ear for poetry…” Between each attribute he kisses my body gently. “Where is your secret failing?”

Lust, my mind immediately offers. You would see abundant evidence of it before you, Jonathan, if you would care to look. Lust for women, for audience, for religious rapture, for power. My lust taints everything it touches, even Jonathan, for it is he who is without reproach, and loves with a clean heart and conscience.

“I am the one Samuel anointed to be future king,” I suddenly confess, no longer able to deceive him, for silence is a kind of deception, and Jonathan utterly disarms me with his effortless candor.

He looks at me, studies me, as if piecing me together.

“Why should the bearer of such good news look so forlorn?” He finally says. “You have lifted away all my misgivings about the future of Judea.”

“No, no, I would not take your throne-- not after all this. I spill my heart only to him who owns it, that you might know the foolish pretensions with which I entered Saul’s services.”

“But you will have the throne. I bestow my claim to it on you, here and now.” He kisses me, deeply, his angular jaw far coarser than a woman’s even after the blade, but I revel in the difference today instead of taking fright, rubbing my smooth cheek against his stubble, finally part from his lips to run my tongue along his neck, and flick at the Adam’s apple that bobs as he swallows hard. Jonathan rests back on the pillow, thighs gradually sliding apart so that I grow even closer to his person. I begin to move, our bodies like two millstones, our beautiful circumcised organs side-by-side, squeezed between our sliding torsos, weeping and smearing our skin as I grind against him.

I am in awe of his inward discipline—even as his visage fogs over with want, he never emits a sound loud enough to arouse suspicion of troops camped around us. He is calm, mature, beneficently accepting of my dumb, eager, rutting body between his legs, while I had lain morose and ungrateful last night like the petulant child that I am. I feel selfish and weak, but he sees something in me. He has seen my true intentions and did not recoil from me, our bond only strengthening. I have his blessing to usurp the throne from him. Why is it, then, that I have suddenly lost all interest in kingship?

Our hands have joined, fingers interlocked, and my hips race to finish. Jonathan, Jonathan, Jonathan, I repeat his name, gasping it as loud as I dare here, with other tents within hearing range, climaxing again though with less juvenile force than earlier this morning. A streak of it lands on Jonathan’s delicate face—across his lips and onto his cheek. His eyes squeeze shut, lips pout, as if to distance the dirt from his person that way.

I lick him clean of my seed. He flinches, staring at me with a slight disapproval, so I do not push the bounds of our decency further—I do not take his desire between my lips as I had wanted to do, but work it to completion with my hands.

We hear the din of morning begin outside and rise out of bed, still perspiring.

We are not equals, but like two notes that harmonize. I want the throne, but I want to rule jointly, fight side-by-side, know women and father children side-by-side, enjoy victories and live to old age side-by-side. Never to be parted—that is my new ambition. Yet Jonathan’s hand abandons mine.

“Leave the tent first. I will follow after you later.”

I do as he instructs and squint in the bright sunlight as I exit, but dream of the day we no longer need worry about trivial discretion—joint rulers from Judah and Benjamin, grand, beautiful, and just.


End file.
